ashland

spears all on the rising star
moon and mind in flow
a gul picks at the distant land
where embers of bad mistakes glow
digging against the rising tide
before the sun, without cause
hopes a wing will make for flight
or the will wings through the night
picking dust off and around
the darkness in the ashland
until just before the dawn it found
a silent insiduous lighted shell
a secret crystal past, in tune
of things as they were, should be
all embers cool around the gul
the star fades to the rising sun
the gul feasts on the blinding light
tucks a wing and says a prayer
closes its eyes content to see
ashland under crystal reign
until it sleeps